


I shall not call the sunbeam bright

by eldritcher



Series: Red Falls The Dew On These Silver Leaves [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:08:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron thinks he has seen it all, until he sees the Prince. Now he thinks that he hasn't seen anything yet. </p><p>The Prince has a fine mind. Melkor wants it broken. Unfortunately for them all, the Prince has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I shall not call the sunbeam bright

“The stars are veiled, Mairon,” he remarked wistfully, his eyes cast up towards the clouded expanse above.

“Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,” I retorted placidly. 

It was an oft practised exchange between us. My lord’s attachment to the stars was a source of deep consternation to me. He insisted upon embarking on endeavours only if the stars were unveiled, for he believed that portended a good omen. On nights as these, he would watch the skies and then upon seeing the curtain of clouds refuse to proceed with plans long slaved over by me.

“I have sent the embassy to the Fëanorions,” I offered after a long moment of mutual silence. “Nelyafinwë is no fool. He will not be led into parley.” 

I had to say that though my companion seemed uninterested in the outcome to the said embassy. Melkor looked up at the stars again thoughtfully.

“Yet he shall,” he said quietly and foreboding clouded my mind. 

“I know of him, milord. He is an excellent strategist. You underestimate his brilliance in expecting him to walk shortsighted into this parley.”

“You know of him, Mairon. I know of his fate,” Melkor murmured. “I hear that Fëanáro burned away into nothingness.”

“He was ever impatient,” I said wryly. Fëanáro, I had not been well-acquainted with. But Aulë, my former master, had loved the Noldo and would fondly remark on the legendary impatience of his protégé. “He did not probably wish to await cremation.”

“He was reckless, not impatient,” was my lord’s opinion. 

“I beg to differ, milord. When a general, unable to estimate the enemy's strength, allows an inferior force to engage a larger one, or hurls a weak detachment against a powerful one,and neglects to place picked soldiers in the front rank, the result must be rout. Fëanáro did all of those. Their finest soldiers were wasted in the side flanks while the inexperienced were brought to the front for massacre. It was folly, folly brought on by his impatience that thwarted deeper planning.”

“Warfare is your domain,” Melkor conceded. “If you could only bring imagination into your repertoire, you would exceed your own estimate.”

“Milord accuses me of a lack in imagination?” I asked, mildly irked that he would say so. I did not consider it a failing that I was not moved by the beauty of roses or the shafts of starlight. One romantic in the dyad was ample, I felt.

He threw me a good-humoured smile before saying, “Merely that if you applied your considerable brilliance to the realm of hearts as you do with the realm of warfare and politics, you would be near insurmountable.”

“The hearts and their motives, or the lack thereof, I have never been interested in,” I lied blandly, willing myself not to think of hair haloed by the light of Laurelin and skin warmer than the eastern gale. 

His reply was unvoiced, for a messenger came rushing to us, features alit with jubilation. 

“The High-King has been taken alive!”

 

 

I remembered him as the debonair sartorial master who ruled the court debates of Tirion and Valmar. I had seen him only from a distance, when I had journeyed to Elven courts as an ambassador to Aulë. But even then, I had been impressed by the unbiased, clearheaded arguments he excelled at. 

It was difficult to equate the Prince of words with the bloodied, disgraced captive King who stood before us now. Emotion slivered through my veins and I frowned in displeasure, for I had foresworn myself the right to emotion when I had foresworn myself the right to bask in the golden aura of an infatuated fool. 

Dispassionately, I viewed him. He was tall and slender, as the Eldar were, though in him the traits were starker. I noticed that he favoured one leg heavily, a cost of the foolish gambit that he had taken. I had never expected a grandson of Finwë to fall for that obvious trap, was he that desperate for the jewel? Perhaps there was more to the rumours of their oath than they let on. Interesting indeed and yet, I found myself discomfited by the sight. 

“Cursed shall you be, Moringotto!”

“Naive, is he not?” Melkor murmured to me. 

I did not reply, being unable to associate this ranting feyness with the cool rationalist I had listened to not so long ago. I stared into his disturbingly clear eyes. There was no horror or shock in them. Merely resigned acceptance. 

“Milord,” I began, but the prisoner continued furiously.

“I demand that I be returned to my kin, traitor!”

I frowned and realisation seized me in its uncomfortable grip; he had willingly played along into the ambush. The grey eyes held the narrowest sliver of triumph ere it was covered by righteous fury. 

“Milord,” I began again, worried by what I had discerned. But Melkor had begun his speech and paid no heed to me.

“Apparently you are under the delusion that I went to all the trouble of capturing you alive so that I could see your charming face, get shouted at, and then send you back to your brothers.”

“You played false, after offering us a truce”, the prisoner said indignantly, anger suffusing his pale, noble features.

“After all I have wrought, did you truly think that I cared for battle field honour?” Melkor enquired sardonically. 

“Truly have you fallen low then, if you condone abduction and violence!”

“I think I might teach you more than your uncle and grandfather did in your pasture lands of Aman. Untried you are in the ways of Middle Earth. But not for long. Mairon, I deliver him to your tender care.” Melkor favoured me with a knowing glance. 

I bid the servants hold the prisoner in the nearest cell and arranged for a watch before going to seek Melkor. My worries had turned into dark foreboding. If the tales I heard of the Prince were true, and I had no cause to believe otherwise, he would gamble a war only to win the battle. 

“Spirited, is he not?” Melkor remarked as I entered his study. 

I nodded stiffly and prepared to plunge into the issue headlong, for it was most imperative that I alert him to what I had discerned.

“You will break him, Mairon,” Melkor began quietly. “You will break him beyond hope and light. Slowly. He loves his mind. Break it.”

“His mind is a fine thing, milord,” I said, strangely hesitant for the first time in my life as a torturer. “It will not break soon.”

“What is this, Mairon?” Melkor laughed softly. “Would you actually acknowledge anything of Eä’s make as beautiful and fine? I thought you had no use for those words.”

“I wished to tell you of my suspicions regarding his motives.”

I changed the subject for his words were dangerously close to the truth. ‘Beautiful’ and ‘fine’ - I had use for those words and for others of their ilk, amply and frequently, when I had been stewing in a cauldron stoked by hands of gold. 

“Whatever his motives be, they will be futile once you break his mind,” Melkor said dismissively. 

I knew that tone. He would not appreciate further insistence upon the subject. Reluctantly, I shoved away the concern for another time, still unable to ignore the niggling feeling that things were not as they seemed. 

“Use the woman.” 

I stirred away from my thoughts and returned to the conversation. 

“He is no fool, milord. Also, he has never been notorious for libido unlike his cousins.” 

“Yet the woman is remarkable. She is unspoiled. You said you reserve her as bait for your mindgames with the resisting prisoners. He will resist. Use the woman to ease your path, Mairon. He has a chivalrous streak. I know him well enough from my days in his father’s forge.”

 

 

I repaired to my chambers, trying to make order out of the chaos that had descended on my head with the advent of the Noldor. There had been the reckless Fëanáro driving us to desperation with his all or nothing attack. That I understood and classified as the easiest recipe for a rout. I had been proved right. Now there was a strategist with no reputation for recklessness who had delivered himself into a glaringly obvious ambush. It reeked of danger. And I was no closer to understanding his motives.

Not comprehending motives never failed to rouse my wrath and I bid the guards bring the captive in. 

After the first session, I gleaned appallingly few facts about the prisoner. He was proud, but in a flexible manner unlike the rest of his kin. When pain overwhelmed him, he was not above crying out. Intriguingly enough, he learnt to give in to pain instead of fighting it early on. A fast adapter to circumstances, I had to admit, which merely made it all the more unlikely he was foolish enough to walk wide-eyed into our trap.

I was called away for a few moments by a pressing concern and I returned to find the servants pressing their lewd attentions upon him. I intervened ere that progressed, but I could not help observing that he exhibited neither horror nor fear at their doings. Melkor was wrong; our guest was not half as naive as my lord had declared him to be. It gave me no satisfaction to be proved right though, keen as I was to know the true motives behind this surrender. 

The woman Melkor had referred to was Elerrína. In my guise as Gorthaur, I had come across her when the Elves journeyed west. Our minions had taken the party of Grey Elves captive. They were high-born, this woman and her brother. It was writ on their faces. I advocated patience where their fate was concerned, for it seemed a waste to condemn them to mere thraldom when they could serve better purposes. The high-born women of the Eldar, I often used for my experiments in crossbreeding. 

Elerrína would have met the same fate. But she had hair that was spun gold and eyes that shone with the light of Cuiviénen. I stayed my hand, setting her away in seclusion until an experiment that would tap her to the fullest came along. Of course, my memories of hair that was gold held no part in my decision. 

Melkor had often suggested that I was enamoured by the woman. It could not be further from the truth. To use every man and woman as they deserved to be, that was one of my longstanding axioms. And a fool could see that Elerrína would serve purposes higher than breeding.

It was time now to use her. Thawed by centuries of isolation and fear of despoilment, she would cling to the prince. His chivalry would be the weakest link in his mail when it came to mindgames. Simplicity, was it not?

 

 

It unfurled as simply as I had thought it would. He was thrown into her dungeon; broken, bloodied and soiled. She nursed him to health and sobbed over his defilement. The days continued as they had ever done in my lord’s realm. 

Each session saw his body weakening gradually. He needed longer to recover and lesser to be forced to his knees. He did not mind subjugation despite the many cruelties my lieutenants heaped on him. 

Melkor began growing impatient and I increased the length of the sessions. The prince cried, screamed and often limply let us do what we wished. But not a word of compliance escaped his lips and his mind remained as barricaded as it had been on the first day. I feared that we would end up killing him with torment and still be none the closer to touching his mind. His failing health was a cause for worry.

I resorted to the final tactic. The woman.

The most hideous of my lord’s servants were summoned and marched to the dungeon shared by the prince and the woman. Fear rose in his eyes for the first time as he realised what my intentions were. 

It was a ploy often employed within those dark confines. The woman was no longer unspoiled at the end of the session. She was huddled in a corner, a mess of blood and marred flesh. The prince was still held back by a few of the guards – he had fought his bonds for the first time since captivity. 

“What do you say, Nelyafinwë?” I asked him.

His lips pursed and eyes narrowed dangerously before he said quietly, in a voice coloured by melancholy and resignation, “You deserve your name, Gorthaur.”

“I see that Elerrína has been teaching you her language,” I drawled, smug seeing the first traces of true loathing and fear rise on his features.

“Don’t sully her name with your tongue,” he hissed, still fighting those who restrained him.

“You seem eager to be her champion, prince. How far would you go along this path?” 

He stopped struggling and said simply, “Nowhere useful to you.”

He had underestimated me. A dangerous mistake. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle. 

He had made the mistake of not knowing his enemy. It was time to draw blood. 

“Pin him down, strip him, and make him have the woman.” 

My instructions were precise, calm and not inflected by the least emotion. But his eyes widened in horror and he began speaking. The words went unheard in the ruckus raised by my minions as they dragged over the sobbing woman to him and enforced my orders. 

Tears escaped him, but they were not the tears of pain that had fled down his cheeks during physical torment. These were for her and I knew that chinks were waiting in his mental armour, begging to be exploited. Yet, for the moment, I was stilled from thought by the sight of his agony, glaringly obvious in his squirming under the restrainers’ hands. 

His reaction to pain was very clear to me by then. He had given in at first; it had gradually evened out into an aid for boosting his mental calm. It was purposeless to torture him. 

But this, his agony, was not for himself. It was for the woman he had come to care for. How deep was their bond? Her hair cascaded down her back, reminding me wilfully of the fall of gold down a warrior’s spine. 

When it ended, I bid the guards take the woman away. That left me with the prince, who was still heaving and panting in the aftermath of consummation. A flare of heat rose in me, unbidden and unwelcomed. In the flickering torchlight, I could not help observing that the prone form at my feet was sculpted with such detail to perfection. It did not remotely resemble the magnificent golden body I had once been blessed to touch. No, the beauty I had worshipped and the raw, painful handsomeness before me now were as antithetic as oil and water. 

“I am not Laurefindë, Mairon,” said he softly in a voice that was regaining calm despite the pain and agony. 

I flinched and took a step backwards. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was bruised past recognition. Yet there was lucidity in his movements when he heaved himself up biting back exclamations of pain. I remained where I was, struck by the intensity of those smouldering grey eyes. 

“He was perfection to you, was he not?” he whispered. “Perfection that evaded everything else you saw.”

“Perfection is an illusion, a mere word and a dream unrealised by all,” I rallied. “They called you perfection and look at you now.”

His eyes sparkled and he leant in, overpowering my senses with the stench of blood and spent lust. “And yet you see something in me, do you not?”

I did not reply, for any reply would have been a falsehood. He was yet lucid enough to discern those. One may know how to conquer without being able to do it. I knew that I could break him now, break his mind beyond sanity and coherence. He had taken the offensive because he realised that his defences had fallen apart. It proved how shaken by the ordeal he was. I could break him, but I found that I was unable to.

“What game do you play, son of Fëanáro?” 

“I am not gold, I am not perfection, but I am here, before you.” 

When he dropped to knees already bleeding, his fingers clumsily untying the laces of my robes, I understood his intention. He must have been on the verge of being broken then, to stoop voluntarily to such measures. I flinched at the swallow he made before applying himself to the task – he was frightened out of his wits. Yet I allowed him to recoup and salvage his mental defences, closing my eyes as he proceeded stoking a lust nonexistent. The nature of the act dictated that I place my fingers in his matted mane, dragging and stroking as impulse commanded. Yet my fingers grew frenzied and I overwhelmed his inexperienced self with increasing ardour – where had foresworn carnality come from? 

When it ended, it ended with a cursed, loved name from my lips that undid every lie of my existence in my lord’s lair.

The prince fell back, too extinguished by pain and fear to even clean his lips. With a curse, I sighed and removed my overrobe before dabbing his face clumsily with it and then covering his nakedness. 

“You could break me now,” he murmured wearily. “I am yet to achieve a measure of strength.”

The cave walls seemed yet to resonate with the sound of the name I had exclaimed at my crescendo. I shook my head firmly.

“I cannot promise that you will be spared in the future, prince.” For once, I spoke a title and meant it. Grey eyes met my gaze resignedly. “Whatever purpose you plotted,” I continued, “it is futile. My lord turns impatient and I cannot do anything if he decides to direct matters himself.”

“I know.” He hesitated before clasping my hand. “Mairon, you and I are condemned to this hell. We understand it. Leave the woman out of this.” 

“This place is not conducive to chivalry,” I said grimly. “Elerrína shall be used, despoiled and broken until she fades. It is the lot of thralls here.”

“I can serve as a vessel for lust,” he said quietly, his shudder nearly imperceptible. “I can take what would be her torment, as long as I live.”

“I did not know that you had a penchant for whoring,” I said acerbically. His hand let go of mine and he flinched as if struck. 

I rose and prepared to leave saying, “This is not the place for chivalry, little prince. I would advise you to harden your heart. Your charms will not work forever.”

 

That night, I remained restless and wary. The prince was vulnerable, deeply so. It would not take much to break him. Yet what purpose would it serve? My lord would be pleased. Beyond that there would be no use. The Fëanorions had given him up for dead. In fact, if I continued torturing him as I did, he would die ere the year ran out.

“Come and watch the stars with me, Mairon,” Melkor invited me as he prepared to leave for his daily sojourn.

I complied and we meandered through the paths, speaking idly of this and that as we walked. The conversation turned to our prisoner, as it was bound to eventually. I told him frankly of what had transpired, leaving out details of my disastrous interlude with the prince. It would merely cause rise to suspicion about loyalties, something I strove to stay cleanly away from at all times.

“Do you mean to tell me that torment, forced intimacy and gruelling living conditions are yet to make an effect?” 

“I hold that he would die if I continued as I do,” I said plainly.

“Then I will take charge, Mairon.”

I had expected things to take that turn eventually. Yet I felt strangely frustrated. I would rejoice the day the prince died, for he was wreaking havoc on my hitherto controlled emotions.

 

I was present when Melkor began his inquisition. It was as I had predicted. The prince was no match for a Maia, then what would he do against one of the Valier?

I watched with rising discomfort as my lord gained supremacy. The prince was no match, but even then I was surprised by the easy victory he had handed over to Melkor. 

“Is this what you could not achieve, Mairon?” Melkor asked me dubiously as he nudged the near insensate form with his boots. Grey eyes flashed vengeance and I exclaimed in alarm as Melkor blanched suddenly.

The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim. Therefore the good strategist will be terrible in his onset, and prompt in his decision. The prince was a strategist par excellence. The onslaught of his mind, thus far deliberately subdued and weakened, left Melkor reeling and crying in horror. I rushed to my lord’s aid, but the white fire that seared through my thoughts had me exclaiming in pain. 

The fire was young yet and Melkor rallied rapidly, his wrath overwhelming the prince and rendering him broken in less than an instant’s time. Yet there was no triumph on my lord’s face, only fear. I wondered what dark secret the prince had wrested from Melkor.

“Throw him into his cell!” Melkor snarled. “I will pass judgement in a while.”

I stared, stunned at the fact that Melkor who had not balked even in the face of the might of the joint powers of the Vala was shaken enough to demand reprieve after a wresting with the prince.

Sobs, high-pitched and reeking of insanity, brought my attention away my lord to the vanquished prince. The very ground on which he lay had been charred by the force of Melkor’s wrath. I gingerly cast a spell of protection on myself and moved towards him, my heart hammering in fear as I took in the condition he had been reduced to. It was not merely physical pain; his mind had been ripped apart by the inferno of my lord’s fury.

“Come,” I murmured, “before he returns.”

The prince did not understand a word of what I said, instead huddling into a heap and continuing the sobbing. When I touched his shoulder, I could see every thought of his, unshielded and plain. Melkor had destroyed his mind utterly beyond salvation. 

I removed him away from the chamber. I had never used my healing powers without prompting before. Yet I found myself murmuring nearly forgotten enchantments and whispered words of healing as I tried to bring the wretched soul a measure of consolation.

“You cannot save me, Mairon,” he said, for once too past caring to try and conceal his fear. “But save yourself if you can.”

“Bloodguilt lies heavy upon me, Prince. I am past saving.”

“Save Elerrína then,” he said softly.

I did not reply, choosing to leave him to his darkness. 

 

Melkor’s command came swift and unforgiving: poison and then the Thangorodrim. When I drew near the dungeons, poison in hand, I saw Elerrína beside him, trying to soothe him into lucidity.

“He will not recover,” I told her.

“Please!” She fell at my feet, prostrating herself. “Kill him cleanly.”

She was a remarkable woman, Elerrína of the Sindar, and I wondered what noble blood flowed in her veins; perhaps the blood of Singollo himself.

I knew the purpose of the poison I held in my hands; it was not concocted with a swift end in sight. Melkor had dictated prolonged agony upon the unforgiving rocks, exposed to the vagaries of the elements. Whatever secret the prince had uncovered, it was a powerful one indeed.

The prince came to then, and his grey eyes roved about, seeking a hold to anchor themselves to. When he met my gaze, I saw his thoughts, and understanding and pity flared through me. Laurefindë had called me the least impulsive creature he had had the misfortune to meet. But what I did then cannot be explained away by any reason but impulse. I turned tail and left the dungeon. I closed the door behind me and leant against it, deafening myself wilfully against the primal sounds of coupling that echoed through the corridor. 

When silence prevailed again, I entered and bade him drink the poison. He did so with nary a flinch and when those assigned to taking him to Melkor arrived, he accompanied them quietly. 

I was left with Elerrína. Her face was drawn in sorrow and her eyes were alit with bone deep courage, and she spoke quietly the very words that Laurefindë had declared to me at our parting.

“I regret nothing.”

* * *

I cannot fathom why my steps frequently led me past the cell wherein Elerrína was confined. I did not speak to her, for I had no business with her. Yet I would often shoot surreptitious glances within, and my cold cynicism would withdraw in favour of nervous concern when   
I did so. 

Finally, when I could bear it no longer, I asked her dispassionately, “Why did you bind yourself to one who is doomed past eternity?” 

I had to know. Laurefindë had asked me to join with him for eternity. I had balked at the idea, for a bond was only a restraint imposed upon choice, heart and ambition. I had sacrificed much for him, but to ask more of me would be to snap the taut lines of our mutual regard past restoration. He had refused to see that, but when had he listened to me? Years later, I was no closer to understanding why love demanded pledges, bonds and eternal vows. How could Elerrína tie herself to the dying prince through a bond, a bond that was not reciprocated?

“He needs to live,” she whispered. “Milord, did you not see it in his heart? He needs time. I can give him that.”

“I had known that bonds were fickle to the Eldar,” I said crisply, wondering if Laurefindë would have bound himself to another in circumstances as this. Her hair was distracting me from my detachment.   
She did not reply, tilting her head in bewilderment. I gestured to the soft mound of her stomach and said coolly, “You were no virgin. You had a child. Was the father among the thralls taken?”

She flinched and looked away. I could have pried the information easily enough. But I shook my head and said quietly, “The prince dies even as we speak. Your energy, even if you give him all you are through this wretched one-sided bond, will not suffice to keep him alive. He is poisoned and near death, past aid and sanity. Love, born of fickle circumstances as it is, cannot save him.”

“I respect him, milord,” she said softly, her eyes shining in sadness. “I have no right to profess undying love for the prince, for I did not know him at all. All I know is that I shall die here, and it does not matter, for I can serve no purpose in life. But his life will serve a purpose, or many, and if I can help him live, I shall.”

“If I told my lord, you would be killed, painfully, slowly,” I enunciated each word clearly, and watched the impact hit her hard.

Then she rallied and said hesitantly, “The prince begged me tell you that one can hoodwink the Gods with fool’s gold.”

 

“You conniving bastard!” I shouted up at his insensate form. 

He was nearly in the clutches of Námo, and certainly leagues away from lucidity and sanity. I cursed myself and cursed him thrice the more before cloaking myself in enchantment and going up to him. Melkor would have me slain – agonisingly – if he were to ever hear of my doing. 

When I touched his cold skin, and rubbed the soiled, vermin-infected garment tattered by the winds, he moaned and stirred, though grey eyes did not crack open to meet my regard. I felt the lack of bloodflow in his right hand, it was lost to him, I knew instinctively. His extremities were benumbed and his lips blue. I closed my eyes and willed my healing powers to course into his form, fighting tooth and claw with Námo who seemed most set on taking the prince. 

I was right. Elerrína’s strength had not been enough. If I had not gone to him then, he would have passed away in a day or two. The idea unsettled me more than I cared to admit. 

Incoherent mumbling passed his lips, and I conjured water before gently settling into the process of rehydrating his body. Laurefindë would have probably swooned on seeing me thus. He had accused me of not having a single charitable bone in my body. 

But a measure of lucidity had returned to the eyes that were a cursed foremother’s legacy as they opened to meet my gaze.

“There is no benefit in the gifts of a sinner, they say,” he murmured wearily, arching up to the waterskin I had drawn away in concern of straining his swallowing reflexes.

“When have you ever gone by what they say?” I asked, equally tired of everything. 

His eyes regained the smallest measure of the sparkle that had characterised them ere Melkor had sent him into insanity. I brought the waterskin to his parched, broken lips and gently tilted it, staring in wretched fascination as the rivulets of clean water made gory tracks down his defiled, marred torso.

“I seem to be on the last rung of insanity if my vision has conjured images of you coming to my consolation,” he breathed hoarsely. 

“I came to declaim you as the conniving bastard that you are,” I muttered. “But I had to bring you to consciousness to make you hear that.”

His lips quirked in a ghastly parody of the easy smile that had once played across on them. But he rallied well enough from death and whispered, “My mother would be most put out by such an accusation, Mairon. Whyever would you say such a thing?”

“Gold,” I said quietly. “You claim that you can hoodwink the Gods with fool’s gold?”

“I claim only that which has been proved, Mairon.” He tried to lean in, not even wincing at the movement. That, more than anything else, showed me how inured and numb he had turned to the pain. I swore and leant in myself, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. 

“You see,” he continued hoarsely, in a voice broken by defilement, disuse and screams, “a certain advisor to Aulë hoodwinked more than one of the Ainur by convincing them that he would choose the path to darkness spurning love and light to achieve his ambition.” 

“Continue,” I breathed softly, taken in by the eerie light within his eyes.

“He did not choose the darkness spurred by ambition.” His numb fingers brushed mine stiffly. “He chose it for his golden love whom Irmo would have taken if the Maia had not consented to obey his whims.”

I snarled and struck him hard in the pelvis, my limb jousting with bones. The jarring propelled him to the rock face and his eyes rolled back in his head. 

“Mairon, Mairon,” he whispered, “are we not the unluckiest among Eru’s creations, you and I?”

“I should have let you die, wretched prince,” I muttered, fighting off the urge to save him from this purgatory. “Laurefindë shall ever hate me.”

“If you had told him,” he began softly.

“As much as I hate to admit, I would rather have taken your place on this cliff face than ever, ever subjecting him to the distress of Irmo’s wiles,” I swore. “It was my burden, my choice, my path and my heart. I regret nothing.”

“If that is the truth, then you are fortunate,” he murmured. “To be untainted by regret is no mere feat.”

“You know well that it was not the truth,” I said wryly. “In better days, I might have enjoyed verbal jousts with you.”

“Pity, is it not, that we meet under the cloud of Atalantë?” he breathed, his eyes regaining their solemnity. “Come no more, my fate is not yours. Not every charm can hoodwink the Gods, Mairon. You have chosen your path, now begone along it, for there is no drawing back. The doom upon you allows no half-measures.”

“You see my doom then?” I queried.

“It is of no import,” he said, not unkindly. “Away, please, for I need no pitying gaze upon my plight. I may have lost all, but it is cruel to be reminded so.”

“You unearthed a secret deep buried,” I said. “What purpose shall it serve?”

“As I said, Mairon, your fate is not mine.” He closed his eyes exhaustedly. I offered him one last sip from the waterskin. Gulping, he continued, “I know what evil I intend to do, but I know not if I shall live to finish what I started.”

 

“My lord!” The minion came running in horror. “The host of Feanáro’s brother has come!”

I shielded my eyes against the sudden radiance and rushed in to find Melkor, all the while staring at the red orb that came riding through the heavens, flaming in the west as Nolofinwë unfurled his blue and silver banners, and blew his horns, and flowers sprang beneath his marching feet, and the ages of the stars were ended. At the uprising of the great light the servants fled into the deep caves, and Nolofinwë passed unopposed through the fastness of Dor Daedeloth while his foes hid beneath the earth. Then the Elves smote upon the gates of my lord’s keep, and the challenge of their trumpets shook the towers of Thangorodrim; and the one fastened to the rock heard them amid his torment and cried aloud, but his voice was lost in the echoes of the stone.

“My lord!” 

I entered Melkor’s chamber to find him gazing at the new spectacle through the window. I went to stand beside him, veiling my deepest secrets as always, before casting my gaze to the skies. 

The window faced the Thangorodrim and we could see the prisoner who had stolen Melkor’s darkest secret. The red orb of fire and gold climbed steadily upwards until it shone down its fiery radiance upon the wretched prince. I watched, fascinated, as life warmed in his blood and his pulse gained slowly. Eyes, grey as the starlit meres of Beleriand, came up to look at the brightness above and his body shuddered. 

Then his regard turned towards the window, drawn undoubtedly by the radiance of his father’s jewels set in Melkor’s crown. A disdainful quirk of his lips was bestowed ere he returned his gaze to the fire above.

“The Ages of The Stars have ended,” Melkor murmured thoughtfully. “Now it is time to burn and fall.”

“Atalantë,” I said quietly, remembering what the prince had said.

“The downfallen?” Melkor asked amusedly. “I did not know that you shared my penchant for embellishment of words and omens.”

“Shall we attack Nolofinwë?” I asked hastily, not choosing to draw his attention to the subject of the downfallen and how I had come to meet my fall.

 

 

“Love is a cursed, miserable thing,” I told Elerrína when I chanced to pass by her dungeon. 

It had become a routine. She would call out to me when I passed, imploring me to share tidings of the prince. I had ignored her, snapped at her, tortured her, given her over to the guards, and willed her to fade. She reminded me of someone I did not want to be reminded of, green eyes and golden hair, rockfast devotion and unconditional love. Finally, I had thawed, offering her a scrap or two of tidings whenever I passed by.

She seemed in remarkably robust health, despite the ill-use suffered at the hands of her wardens. Perhaps the revived spirits of the prince had helped her recover. 

“Why would you say that, milord?” she asked me softly, her eyes cast to the pallet where still remained the tatters of the cape the prince had worn when he had been captured.

“Because,” I gesticulated angrily, “it makes one choose follies one would have never contemplated otherwise.”

If not for my wretched regard for Laurefindë, I would have been safely cloistered now in Valinor as Aulë’s advisor. If not for the damned rationalist dying upon the Thangorodrim, Elerrína would have been still unspoiled and relatively safe. And if not for Varda and Melkor and their unvoiced love, none of this would have happened. 

 

 

“The Princeling is living on borrowed time,” Melkor said.

I could only hope that he did not know how literally true his words are. 

“His cousin has been searching relentlessly for him,” Melkor continued thoughtfully. “Love, if I am not mistaken.”

I had seen that in the unshielded mind of the prince. Of the cousin who loved him and of the discomfort the prince had in the said cousin’s company. 

Later, that night, staring at the mild whiteness of the moon, I came to my decision. My path was chosen. I could not retrace my steps. Laurefindë was forbidden to me. Having chosen what my mind dictated, I could not do anything to change circumstance. 

But there was something I could do ere I sealed off the past and immersed myself in the darkness.

And that I would do.

 

It was easy enough to lure the cousin to the right paths in the guise of a falcon after having sent a cryptic note proclaiming knowledge of the prince’s whereabouts and willingness to lead the cousin there if only he agreed to follow the falcon. He began singing as we advanced deeper into the lair of Melkor that I called home. I feared that he would draw attention and give us away. A more abominable performance on the harp, I am yet to hear. 

I led him to the rocks and he exclaimed in horror when he saw the spectacle above. I went up to the prince, still in my guise, and roused him to lucidity.

“I told you to keep away, Mairon,” the prince whispered. Then his eyes widened and he saw the harpist beneath. 

“Findekáno!”

“I will save you,” the hotblooded cousin swore defiantly. 

“Mairon, please, please, please take him away from this hell!” The prince drew upon nonexistent reserves of strength to beg me.

“You know the darkest secret of my lord,” I told him quietly. “Use that and obtain Varda’s aid to escape, Prince. Your cousin will see you saved. He does love you.”

“Mairon!” 

Findekáno, for the cousin was named so, had begun imploring the Gods to send succour from the starlit skies. I wondered if the Gods, who had not bothered thus far, would suddenly take an interest in the proceedings.

“I shall not forget this,” the prince whispered, stricken. 

“You should.” I let a tendril of my thoughts caress his mind. “I mean to never turn back to the light again, for as you said, we are allowed no half-measures.”

“Make the best of it,” he said solemnly.

“I intend to.”

“Elerrína,” he began tentatively, as the stars fought above and a shooting cascade of brilliance fell down as lode metal to the grounds. 

“Begone,” I advised him. “I will do for her what I can, a clean death once you are recovered and need her bond no longer.”

His eyes glistened strangely before he closed them and whispered his summons to Varda. Findekáno continued his prayers to the Gods throughout, his voice breaking as he regarded the desecration wrought upon the one he loved. 

Later age transcripts by loremasters say that the prince begged for death when his cousin came to save him. It is a flawed account. He did indeed beg for death, but only after his wrist had been severed and fallen into his cousin’s arms. It was when desperate fingers had come to probe his nether passage and Findekáno whispered harshly, “Tell me they did not do that to you! Death was better!”

The prince had staved off unconsciousness and breathed wretchedly, “Kill me then.”

 

There were massive hunts and a massacre, orchestrated by me upon Melkor’s commands. The guards who had been on the path Findekáno had arrived through were slaughtered and fed to the vultures. The guards who failed to find the prisoner and his saviour were thrown into the fires.

I remained my lord’s right hand lieutenant, as ever. After all, my loyalties were proven thrice over and my cruelty knew no bounds. To fall by my hand was considered infinitely accursed than falling by my lord’s hand.

 

“Milord,” Elerrína whispered when I passed the dungeon on my way to a destination.

“I cannot do anything at all if the fool decides to visit again,” I said crisply.

She bowed her head in gratitude and I realised the sight of golden hair did not affect me as terribly as it once had. I had passed the test. It was time to delve into the darkness that awaited me.

Until Atalantë.

* * *

“Seven?”

“Eight,” he spat, his face a study in anger. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t call a clear amputation a wound,” I pointed at his foot. He glowered at me for a long instant before muttering something about how he should have sent me to face that mad king.

“But I would have won, my lord,” I said confidently, helping him out of his mail without awaiting his assent.

“Claim you that you are mightier than me?” he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

“Of course not!” I scoffed. “The High-King had a thousand reasons to battle you, and none to battle me. You did kill his father and you supervised his brother’s death too. And there was the matter of the extended hospitality we persuaded his nephew to accept. He would have been at his avenging best in battling you.”

“He did shout something about avenging them,” Melkor grumbled. “It was a pity that I had to kill him. He made a beautiful sight, you know, with that shining shield, coat of mail, sharp blade and fey grace.”

“No wonder you were distracted enough to lose your foot,” I chuckled. He shot a warning glare at me. But I did not take heed. He was easily handled, once one knew how to achieve that. 

“Shall I?” I knelt before him and inspected the bleeding foot. 

“It cannot be healed.”

He was right. None of his wounds could be healed, we found much to our dismay. There was nothing to be done but to let them fade with time. I prepared a soothing concoction of herbs and applied the liniment to his wounds. 

“Was he as fiery as his brother?”

“Very. He did cut off my foot, after all!” 

“Well, you shall be glad to hear that we had no trouble with any of the other flanks of attack,” I told him. “The princes of Dorthonion have been slain. We hear reports that Felagund has been captured by our commanders. Of the sons of your old friend, Carnistro and the twins have fled to Amon Ereb. They can be quelled easily. Tyelkormo and Atarinkë are fleeing to Nargothrond. They say Macalaurë is dead. I sent Glaurung to conquer that region.”

“That is excellent!” he crowed happily. I could not help a grin myself. Forgetting all about his foot, he rose and then pain flashed across his features. I tutted and helped him back into the armchair again.

“Can we press onwards and take Hithlum?” he asked me.

I tilted my head to the side, pondering his question. He smiled wryly and said, “Let it be the truth.”

“The lord of lies asks the truth of me?” I teased.

“I lie less frequently than you do.” Melkor raised his eyebrows, adopting as haughty a posture as he could with the medicinal bindings.

“I say that we halt. We cannot afford losses at this stage. If we were to press on, they will unleash their desperation on us. Findekáno is his father’s son.” A grimace flitted over Melkor’s features. I continued, “And there is the Himring factor.”

Melkor hissed through his teeth and struck a fist on the iron-wrought table.

 

“Milord!” Elerrína called out softly as I passed by her dungeon. 

“You should tell me if they use you so,” I remarked, seeing the state she was in. “You will not survive long if this continues and I recall that you had an obligation to live.”

She brought a hand bearing the marks of manacles and nails to wipe away her tears before whispering, “How is he?”

“Alive,” I replied and she exhaled in relief. I thought of my decision to join Melkor, thus saving Laurefindë. She had done the same, sparing the prince what she could.

“Is he,” she hesitated and gulped before continuing, “alone?”

“He would have sent a messenger if he was to celebrate his nuptials,” I said sardonically, aghast that she could think of such superfluous concepts when she lived in mortal danger every instant. 

She cast her eyes down and I continued uncomfortably, “I hear that he is yet unmarried.”

So was Laurefindë. I had made discreet enquiries through spies. Laurefindë had not yet taken a lover despite all that had happened. 

 

Sieges, sallies and scoreless petty wars ahead, we stood upon the fringe of the great war that would seal the fate of Beleriand. Nírnaeth Arnoediad, they called it in later day lays.

“Mairon,” Melkor came to my side. “We have Uldor, son of Ulfang. You must bring him around.”

“I shall, milord,” I bowed obediently.

Persuasion was an art achieved through degrees ranging from soothing words to silken threats. With Uldor, I had to resort to neither, for he was highly contemptuous of the warrior prince who had enlisted his aid for the coming battle.

“How is he?” I asked blandly. “I hear that his recent exploits on the front have been more daring than ever.”

“You need to contain him, milord,” Uldor said bluntly. “His strategy is cunning. At first, then, he leads with the coyness of a maiden, until the enemy gives him an opening; afterwards he emulates the rapidity of a running hare, and it will be too late for the enemy to oppose him.”

“He has abandoned subtlety and grand designs then?” I enquired, shifting markers on the map I was poring over.

“Nay, he forestalls the opponent and drives him into the ground ere we realise we have been vanquished. Slay him, and Beleriand is yours.”

“Tell me how he shall plan his attack and Melkor shall win,” I commanded.

Uldor nodded briskly before taking up a cane from the corner and bringing it to the map. His features darkened as he explained.

“Nan Elmoth, Pass of Aglon, Eastern Marches: he confronts his warriors with the deed itself, never letting them know his design. When the outlook is bright, he tells them. When it is bleak, he drives them with his fiery speeches. But he has a weakness, milord.”

His eyes held mine heatedly. And he spoke the word.

“Trust.”

I had known. He had trusted me long ago even after the fact that I had been orchestrator and accomplice to his breaking. It was more a need to trust than trust itself.

“He trusts your people?” I asked briskly.

Uldor nodded again and said darkly, “Not the rest of his kin. But he trusts us and we fight under him. Thus we have easy access to his person and to his elite guard. We can kill him, milord, if you promise reinforcements ere it is done in the east. The western flank is led by the High-King who is impulsive and valorous. Maglor Fëanorion says that valour is another name for stupidity.”

“He is right there,” I shot Uldor a pleased smile and he settled in, smug. “Bloodmoney is yours and so is Hithlum if you deliver what you promise, Uldor, son of Ulfang.”

“I shall, and in a fortnight, Beleriand shall be your lord’s.”

 

I was assigned to the western flank, for tidings had come to us that Turkáno had come forth from his hidden city. It was with a thudding heart that I took my place in the fray, absurdly grateful for the elaborate Elven helms that hid manes completely. 

But when engaged in combat with a young fool who thought he would take my head as trophy, I heard him scream to the skies, “If only Laurefindë had come with us!”

I brought my blade to his neck and forced him to his knees. With a swift blow, I unhelmed him and demanded, “Did he not come to the battle then?”

“No!” he breathed, frightened beyond comprehension at the sight of my armour-encased form.

“Why so?” 

I had to know. My sword arm trembled as visions of possible reasons conjured themselves in my head.

“Lord Turkáno barred his coming,” the lad spluttered. “There was a letter from Lord Nelyafinwë saying that Laurefindë should remain behind as regent in the city.”

I beheaded the young warrior, my nerves shaken and my body trembling. Fate, no, the prince had spared me the torment of slaughtering Laurefindë by my sword. With renewed bloodlust, I returned to the fray. 

Beleriand was ours.

 

“The sun rises bright and anew above Beleriand – our Beleriand,” Melkor remarked as we stood outside the cavern palace. “What say you, Mairon?”

“I shall not call the sunbeam bright,” I said simply.

* * *

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hungarian Dances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528887) by [eldritcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher)




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